


The Little Prince

by PureLightHealer, spinncr



Category: The Originals (TV)
Genre: Childhood Memories, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Klaus is oblivious as usual, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Norse Religion & Lore, poor cami, revisiting Klaus' childhood, therapy sessions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-15 06:07:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13024857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PureLightHealer/pseuds/PureLightHealer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinncr/pseuds/spinncr
Summary: A closer look at Cami and Klaus' therapy sessions, and the repercussions they have on both.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be part of a series of threads written for the Tumblr roleplay group [Vieux Noyés RP](http://vieuxnoyesrp.tumblr.com/). It may read a little choppy since it's from two separate POVs, going back and forth, but we did a little editing to make it smoother. You can find us at the RP as Cami and Klaus, if you're interested in reading more! 
> 
> Title and quotes are from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's _The Little Prince._

* * *

_“Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived on a planet scarcely bigger than himself and who had need for a friend.”_  
– Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

* * *

This was the first time she was in the Mikaelson Manor, and it’d taken her a good minute or so to forcibly clamp her mouth shut upon entering the majestic estate. From the marble, patterned tiles to the sweeping chandeliers and the grand staircase - it took Cami a good five minutes to process the fact that she wasn’t in a scene from _Titanic._

… The ‘sinking’ part came when he seated her at a desk and pushed forward a type-writer.

“Interrupt if you feel I’m talking too fast. It’s quite important that you get it all down,” Klaus said, tapping the corner of the typewriter smartly. It was only their second session, but Klaus had a dream last night, a dream filled with stars, and he wanted to make sure Camille captured the memories it had stirred. 

He wasn’t sure what it was about her, or these sessions that filled him with such a sense of certainty, serenity, that he could _trust_ Cami, if not with himself, at least with his stories. 

“I think, perhaps this time, we should start closer, at least, to the beginning. Don’t you think? Once upon a time there was a little prince who lived in a forest scarcely big enough for himself and his family. Though he had brothers, he was lonely often, and had need of a friend…”

 

She wasn’t here to write his story, especially not on a device that looked to be at least a century old. She was here to listen _(and gawk)_ as a follow-up to their first therapy session a little over two weeks ago. “Uhm- Can I-…” She trailed off and decided to play along when he continued with his directives in a hurried but melodious voice as he stood beside her. Cami tested the click-clack of the keys, gazing down at the unfamiliar layout. “Little prince, small forest, bros- I mean- _brothers!!_ uh-uhm…” She trailed off, standing up to fumble with both page and machine as she reached the end of the first line. “Uh, would you-… Could we do this by hand… Or something?” She piped up hesitantly, hoping not to offend. But the prospect of accidentally breaking the thing or jamming a key and having to fork over what was likely a week’s worth of tips at the bar in order to pay for it - was not a welcome one. “Also… This story’s about you, right?”

Not that she doubted the princely thing, given his not-so-humble lodgings. 

 

Klaus paused only to thank whatever gods still dared to look down upon him favorably that she hadn’t asked him to type it up on her smartphone. “I’ll have you know that this typewriter gave birth to ‘Hills like White Elephants,’ love. Don’t feel pressured to match his scarcity,” Klaus murmured distractedly. _She_ was distracting him when they had more important things to focus on. 

“Hemingway?” She piped up incredulously. “You know I always thought the guy in the story was a pompous ass. Super defens- Storytime, right - _typing._ ” Cami’s fingers returned to the typewriter, still settling awkwardly over the keys as she tried to decide how best to position them. The quip about matching the novelist’s scarcity made her pause, a retort dancing on the tip of her tongue before she cleared her throat and swallowed it back. Something about Klaus’ mannerisms betrayed a kind of urgency today, and ever since he’d made the surprising decision of hiring her as his therapist, she’d struggled to adopt a more professional air around him. One that didn’t scream _‘bartending student with too much tongue’._

“You are my stenographer, are you not? Focus, Camille. I’m telling you my story and there are seldom few beautiful parts. This is one, and it needs to be given the justice it deserves. I may have grown up, grown old; that’s not the problem. The problem is my friend has been forgotten.” 

“ _Therapist._ ” She corrected him plainly, but made no other move to interrupt as he bade her to focus. Though his words always had a way of giving her pause. _‘I may have grown old’_ , said the guy who looked scarcely older than she herself. 

He turned away to stand in the open balcony door, gazing out at the bustling New Orleans streets below. "There once was a little prince, with no kingdom to speak of and no name to inherit. His mother’s selfishness would earn him his father’s cruelty and hatred though a boy of six couldn’t understand such things. What he did understand, however, was loneliness, and he sensed it in a little boy, no bigger than himself. The village orphan, named Einar.” 

His voice had grown far away, remembering him, more creature than boy when Klaus had first befriended him. They had lived in a cruel world, and the villagers did not spare an ounce of pity for the son of a beggar and a whore, both lost to plague before the poor lad could talk. He hadn’t asked to be born, but they treated him as if he had earned his place in the world all the same. Klaus could still remember the gentle softness of his wide grey eyes. 

Her fingers slowed as Klaus turned away from her and paused at the open balcony door, her eyes trailing thoughtfully over his posture. He was a mystery to her; and though most strangers were, Klaus seemed to be a dark box of contradictions; his moods oscillating with such speed, she never knew what to predict when next they met. “Right, okay. Mom and dad sucked, but the princeling found a friend in Enar… _Ainar?_ Is that with an A, or an E or what? And you sure this isn’t the retelling of a gender-swapped _Goose-Girl?_ Cause seriously, Klaus, we’re here to talk about _you._ ” She told him, trying to laden her voice with concern, lest it come off too sarcastic.

Despite his intent focus on the story, Klaus couldn’t help the small twitch of his lips. Cami’s indefatigable unwillingness to be impressed by him was really quite refreshing, though he’d be damned to a vervain-soaked hell before he’d admit it to her. 

At her correction, however, Klaus’ irritation finally stirred, though he continued speaking. Fickle though he may be to his foes, and perhaps his family would argue, them as well, to Einar he owed so much. Einar, who had taught him the value of kindness, who had showed him why so many preached the unsettling attribute of turning the other cheek, and why, ultimately, it was the greatest mistake a man could make. 

All of a sudden, Cami’s interruptions were too much to bear, and in a blink, he was bent over her across the desk, with her wrists grasp in each of his. “Cami, you will remain calm, and you will _remember._ ” Just as quickly, he was back on the other side of the room, watching her carefully. He was almost grotesquely interested in this part. What would show on Camille’s face before she could school her features back into carefully walled-in ambivalence. “I am the little prince, Camille. I am the lonely boy, and Einar was my first and closest friend,” he said quietly. 

 

She was still debating the spelling of _‘Einar’_ , staring at the typewriter with a puzzled expression, when Klaus jumped forward with inhuman speed; wrenching her wrists away from the machine. The blonde jerked back with a start, mouth forming the shape of an ‘o’. “What are you-…” He cut her off and her eyes searched his in confusion, wrists trying to nudge off his ironclad grip - until it happened. With a sickening lurch, her memories of their first session came flooding back.

_She was talking to a vampire. A real creature out of one of those artist renderings of hell and the devils that supposedly inhabited it. She remembered the eyes, the black veins, the show of fangs… An immortal killer who was reckless and vengeful and power-hungry. A sociopath with a horrible family, all back-stabbing each other and clamouring for the wrong things. She was talking to the impersonation of evil, as she’d been taught to expect it._

Panic hit her just as quick, pupils dilating as she stared at him. But before Cami could act on it, the instinct was stolen away from her; replaced by an uncanny calm. Her heartbeat slowed against its will, muscles relaxing into lethargy despite the fact that her own mind was still firing away its warnings. _Vampire-creature-killer-danger…_ Her fingers raised dutifully over the typewriter as he bade her continue.

When she said nothing, only looked at him wide-eyed, before slowly beginning to type, Klaus nodded, satisfied that that had taken care of that.

“Einar—with an ‘E’, by the way—was a pathetic scrap of a child. His face was scarred by the same fire that had stolen his family from him. The villagers believed him to be graced by the gods, why he was spared from the fire, but marked by Loki as an ill-omen by his scars. They feared the gods too much to let him die, but feared the destruction he would bring to do much else for him. My father forbade us to go near him, so naturally, I couldn’t resist…”

* * *

_“Did you see him?”_

_“Whut?”_

_“Loki, when he marked you, did you see him?”_

_Niklaus stood a length away from the grubby little boy, wearing only a tunic despite the hint of Autumn chill in the air. He knew if his father saw him, he’d meet the belt before bed tonight, but he had to know. He would meet Loki one day, and he needed to know what to expect, how to prepare, how to get his attention._

_The boy regarded Niklaus with his midnight blue eyes, eyes much too old for any child, and shook his head as if he pitied Niklaus. As though Niklaus were the one to be pitied in this situation. “Bring me a heel of bread, and a bit o’ yer ma’s stew an’ I’ll tell ya whut it’s like t'be ‘marked by a god,’” the waif had promised, somehow making it seem like he had decades more hiding beneath his pocked skin than Niklaus had been lead to believe._

“I rushed to get what he asked, mind awhirl. Perhaps he wasn’t merely marked by Loki, perhaps this was Loki come to retrieve me? Perhaps this was my test, and then I’d be whisked away from the black-and-blue grip of my father, his ever more violent distain. My mother,” Klaus broke off, eyes distant. “She knew right away what was going on. She didn’t chastise me, like I had expected, nor did she tell anyone of my sins. Mother didn’t believe in the Gods. She worshipped other powers, powers that answered back, and so she knew what I would come to learn, that Einar was not touched by Loki at all. She bid me to bring him the stew and some of Kol’s old things, too ratty to make into anything for Rebekah, but certainly enough to keep him warm. She even made a balm I was to apply to his burns…”

_“He can’t reach the burns on his lower back, I should’ve seen to him sooner, it’s been too long, but your father’s home from his hunting trip, it was too much of a risk—”_

_“What are you talking about, Mother? What risk? What about father?”_

_She took Niklaus by the shoulders so they were face to face. “Listen very carefully to me, my sweet sparrow. What you are doing is kind and good and I am so, so very proud of you. Einar deserves much better than the lot he has been dealt. You can be the goodness he has been deprived of, and all the powers willing, may he be the light you seek as well.” She kissed his forehead, and though he didn’t understand, too small, too young to really comprehend her prayer, he knew whatever he had done, he had made her happy, and that had been enough, back in the days before he knew better. “But Niklaus, do not let your father see. Or Einar may become the ill-omen the villagers whisper of,” she warned. Eyes wide, Niklaus nodded and took the clay bowl of stew and bread in one hand with the balm in the other to scamper out the door._

“It was the beginning of a time of great change in my life. Einar did not believe in The Viking Gods, and cured me rather swiftly of my obsession with Loki. But for a child he believed in many things I wouldn’t fully understand for centuries. Things like compassion and mercy, despite never being shown such himself. He understood karma, though he’d never even ventured beyond the river east of our village. He couldn’t have been older than ten, and sometimes I swear he walked the earth longer than I ever could dream to…”

_“You don’t need’a kill him just ‘cause he scares ya, Niklaus,” Einar, said gently, cupping his hands around the spider, which Niklaus had been swatting at with a stick. Niklaus jumped backward, stumbling over his own feet to get away, sure that Einar would throw it in his face like Finn, or worse, make him hold it. But Einar did neither, simply watched with a gentle smile on his grotesque lips as the spider climbed its way over his fingers, before lowering him into the leaves where it swiftly disappeared. “If we killed everyfing we was afraid of, Niklaus, I would’ve been wolf meat a long time ago,” he pointed out, in that innocently old way he had._

_Niklaus scoffed, embarrassed to be caught in his foolish fears, and angry on Einar’s behalf. “It’s stupid to be afraid of you. You’re the nicest person in the whole village, and they don’t even know! You fixed Boris’ traps for him, and you keep the deer away from Alva’s gardens. If you just told them, Ein–”_

_“They’d fink I’m tryna curse ‘em or somefin. It’s better like this, Nik. Promise an’ cross me heart. You just keep bringing me tha’ goo o’ yer ma’s and I’ll protect the spiders and we’ll do okay.”_

 

Klaus trailed off, leaning on the balcony door again, lost in a world he hadn’t imagined back into existence in centuries. Of course the story didn’t end there, but he found he couldn’t quite bring himself to finish it. So odd he had chosen now, of all times, to do so once more. Shaking his head, he dropped on to the sofa and rubbed at his temples as if to push out the melancholic pressure that had taken up residence there.

 

Finally, he stopped. A break in the story as he dropped onto the sofa, massaging his temples. Her fingers fell away from the type-writer, cramped and inexplicably shaky. When she finally opened her mouth to speak, her voice was hoarse, although her tone was invariably calm.

_“I want to go.”_

 

When Cami’s voice suddenly rang out into the quiet his gaze shot to hers, shocked. At first, he almost thought that she was overwhelmed by the story, as he was, transplanted back into time with him, but he rapidly realized his meager storytelling abilities weren’t responsible for whatever had upset her.

Frowning, he leaned forward. “Cami,” he murmured. Her heart rate was elevated, and there was a damp sheen of sweat along her forehead. Startled, he stood, “Are you ill? Why didn’t you say—” The scent of fear, usually so welcome a bouquet, suddenly overwhelmed his nose as he approached and he stopped dead in his tracks. You will remain calm, and you will remember. He staggered back to his spot on the couch, feeling the oddest sensation of nausea. Of course she was petrified. It hadn’t even occurred to him to consider her fears. Simply making her calm didn’t alleviate her fear. The sheer arrogance of his assumption and disregard of her feelings threatened to overwhelm him.

“Cami… Of course, I apologize.” 

 

She jerked back instinctively when he leaned forward; skittish, despite there being no complimentary acceleration of her heartbeat. Her legs were lead - she couldn’t run. Still, her eyes watered when he responded with a gentleness she wasn’t sure whether to believe. _“I want to go home.”_ Cami repeated, hoping it would sound firm this time. Instead, it came out small, and child-like. _Here was Kieran’s Devil…_ Here, was Sean’s warning about the world; about that which lurked in the shadows, and against which prayer provided a constant vigil. 

_Maybe, she hadn’t prayed enough..._

Maybe it was catching up with her.

His apology unlocked her muscles; reaching out, she curled her fingers around the edge of the table and stood up cautiously. She’d always been brave, fierce - _inquisitive._ But for the first time in her life Cami was stripped down to pure, unadulterated fear - _and she hated it._ Even in her state of shock she could see the opportunity before her - any scholar’s dream, some would argue. Not only was this creature, _this otherworldly being_ opening up to her, he was doing so with a childhood story that - if true - was a goldmine for psychoanalysis. But Cami couldn’t summon that normally unquenchable curiosity. Try as she might to reach for it - for any composure besides the quiescence he’d compelled of her - she was rewarded with more terror. It felt like reaching into the sea for a coin, and coming up with handfuls of black, inky water. 

She reached for her purse, movements painfully slow as if afraid that at any given moment, he would pounce. _Was this what had happened to Kieran?… Had he met one of these creatures? Had he met Klaus?…_ “I don’t- I don’t think I’m-I’m…” She swallowed, her throat dry as parchment paper, before trying again. “I don’t think… That I’m the right fit… _For you._ I-I can see if there’s anyone else available - another counselor, maybe. Some-someone more… Experienced.” Finally, Cami leaned over the typewriter and tore out the transcript she’d written at his command. With one trembling fist, she offered it to him, before heading for the door.

 

Though this was only their second session, Klaus had come to see many different sides to Camille. Her rapid-fire wit, and utter beguiling lack of mind-to-mouth filter. She was supposed to have been little more than a pawn in a game between him and Marcel. _Let’s see: brave, I let her live; dumb, she’s dessert._ Even from the start, Camille had never played along. Perhaps he’d been too removed from his humanity for too long to see that this wasn’t a game to her. 

Disgust welled in him, shame a thick and sickly sweet syrup coating his throat. For all his talk, for all his supposedly righteous anger, here was a woman who had done nothing, _nothing,_ to earn what he had put her through. A thousand years of the word _monster_ suddenly rang in his ears, and yet, his brave bartender still didn’t back away, but stepped forward, offering everything she had left to give him–the story he hadn’t given her a choice to write, her apology, her assistance in finding an appropriate replacement, because he had left her with the impression that her role was replaceable. 

He floundered for a moment, no longer sure what he intended for her role to be, no longer certain it was his right to decide, but he did know replaceable was not it. 

He stepped forward, gingerly taking the papers she offered, and set them to the side. He longed to flash to the door, cut off her retreat like it would be so easy to do, but she had had enough reminders of his inhumanity of late. So he took another cautious step forward, hands up in the air.

“Cami, I–” he broke off. What could he possibly say to take away the terror in her eyes? How could he ask her to trust in him that he wouldn’t hurt her, when he refused to trust her in return? Desperation clawed its way past the disgust and shame in his throat as she turned her back on him, and he let it take over, before her in a second. _“Cami, you will forget this meeting, forever. You will forget your fear, even when you remember what I am, and what world you truly live in. You have nothing to fear from me. Go.”_

His hands were shaking, he realized, self-disgust so rampant it could’ve replaced the blood he stole to run through his veins. But then, was it really so shocking? That Niklaus, Son of No One, the tainted, poisonous little prince, who brought his darkness with him everywhere he went, even to the little beggar boy whose life couldn’t possibly get any worse–until _him,_ until _it did_ –would grow up to be king of this undead kingdom? King of everything cruel and bleak and despicable? King of the sort of world that a woman like Camille had no place in. The sort of place that would take the light that shined in her, and stamp it out, ruthlessly, time and time again, until she lost the energy to flicker alight once more. _He_ would do that to her. It wasn’t a supposition, but a prophecy of the future to come. For like all little princes, he was spoiled, and lonely, and in need of a friend.

* * *

_“Where are the people?” resumed the little prince at last. “It’s a little lonely in the desert…”  
“It is lonely when you’re among people, too,” said the snake.”_


	2. Chapter 2

“If you’re looking for Sophie,  _no can do -_  she’s taken the day off. Not sure why, but you might wanna try back tomorrow.”  

“Is it just me or do most Sophies seem a touch unreliable?” Klaus asked, taking a seat across from her at the bar.  

Cami couldn’t fight a smile at that; or maybe it was merely the tone in which he delivered it. Besides, it wasn’t as though he wasn’t right where this Sophie was concerned, at least. “ _Ha-ha_.”- Not that she had to admit it. “And what do they say about Klauses, then? Cause I’m guessing the ‘toy-touting- _joy for all_ stereotype isn’t universal where that name’s concerned.” 

Klaus noticed as she danced around confirming or denying his statement, and found his lips quirking in reaction. For all her lack of an oral filter, Camille could be the height of diplomacy when she so chose. “I resent that. I’m the  _epitome_  of toy-touting-joy-for-all. You can ask anyone. I’m a veritable  _St. Nick_.”

“You see, I’d be more than happy to try,  _Dimples_ , but something tells me I wouldn’t get very far if I did.” The retort was out before she could give it a second thought; the psychoanalytical part of her brain never far behind when it came to talking to her clients ( _client,_  rather, though she loathed to admit it there was only one so far), even outside of therapy time. 

It was a bad habit.

“You keep promising me I’ll meet your friends… Family, anybody really. Any longer and I might start suspecting you’re secretly a hermit.” It wasn’t exactly common for clients to introduce their therapists to the people in their lives, but Cami was hoping that maybe if he made good on his word, she’d be able to remember the details of their therapy sessions a little better- Details which seemed strangely muddled. It was a worrying occurrence lately, and she was really hoping Klaus wouldn’t catch on.

He was never sure whether her nicknames bothered him or pleased him. He  _did_ have nice dimples, but they were hardly a menacing physical trait. “Careful, love, or I might just start to think you like these dimples of mine,” he said, making the words seem almost like a threat. “Regardless, I’m doing you a favor, really. Dreadful company, the lot of them,” he intoned, waving her concerns away like the smallest of flies. “I’m much more entertaining, I assure you. Besides if you met my family, I’d never get another appointment, what with all the new clientele.” He leaned his elbows on the bar, chin resting in one hand. “And I’m sure it’s your professional opinion, Camille, that our appointments do not cease just yet. You are, after all, critical to the success of my personal growth.” More than she could possibly know.

Truth be told, she actually did like his dimples. It gave him a sort of boyish charm that made everything else he said that much easier to swallow. Were it anyone else, Cami would’ve likely said as much aloud. But this was a client, she reminded herself, and there were some professional lines even a bold-mouthed fledgling like herself wouldn’t cross.

“You know, you could always call me by my nickname though.” She offered, flipping the topic around so that it was aimed at her instead. It wasn’t something she commented on during their sessions either, but outside of those she wasted no opportunity to remind him of the fact that  _‘Camille’_  was a lame name. “No love lost between you and them; you’ve mentioned that before. I’m not sure we psychology-types share the same definition of  _fun_  as you do, but I’ll indulge you since we’re in a bar; aka - the one place in town where any definition of fun seems to fly.” It bordered on a grumble, but she was still new enough on the job that she hadn’t completely lost the rose-coloured glasses. 

At his pointed comment about how imperative she was to his success, another helpless smile tugged at her lips. “Boy, you sure know how to butter up a scientist! Good thing too,” The blonde continued, pulling her hair up into a ponytail, “Cause flattery  _will_ get you great service.” She offered him a cheeky smile before bracing her palms against her side of the counter. “What’ll you be drinking?… Promise I won’t psychoanalyze  _that._ ”

Klaus clucked his tongue at the absurd notion. “And waste an opportunity to taste such a delightful name on my tongue? Why,  _Camille,_  that’d be a travesty.” he purred, now loosely clasping his hands over the edge of the bar top, near her elbow. The blatant flirting, without any immediate endgame was unlike him. It wasn’t that he didn’t  _have_  an endgame, just that flirting wasn’t going to get it for him–this time. Then again, it always seemed like flirting was a safer bet than the lethal verbal combat that came more naturally to him, and to her, it seemed.

“Undoubtedly not,” he said, his grin sharper than daggers. “I’ve been told my type of fun is lethal, but then again, Elijah is prone to hyperbole as dramatic effect.” Well, he couldn’t say either her or Elijah was wrong; bars had certainly entertained his particular brand of amusement often enough in the past, and he was the most lethal creature to walk the planet. He smiled to himself, genuinely amused before considering his drink. “Well, Dr. O’Connell, how about a scotch, to honor Clan MacConnall, no doubt distant cousins of yours.” The Scottish and Irish were two very different people nowadays, but in his youth, they had shared ancestors with _his_  people, and in a different land entirely. He felt like he earned the right to generalize just by sheer endurance of time. 

He  _had_  come for a reason, but he was finding himself holding off, as he swirled the amber liquid. He had realized last week at their last “session” how much the dull tone of her voice under compulsion irritated him. He wrinkled his nose at the thought and sipped as his drink as he considered his brave bartender. 

“That _name’s_ a travesty,” She retorted, gaze falling to his hand as he reached out to clasp the edge of the bar top, right by her elbow. Cami looked up, locking eyes with him for a moment before she moved over to the sink with an eyeroll, still unsure of whether he was simply making fun of her. She flipped the faucet on and washed her hands.  

_‘My type of fun is lethal’…_

There it was again; another vague detail from their sessions, lost in the fuzzier parts of her memory. She had an inexplicable gut feeling that it was  _something she ought to remember_ ; more than just a tongue-in-cheek remark - more than just a joke. But try as she might, she couldn’t recall anything beyond the fact that he had a bit of a temper and a paranoid way of dealing with others. Was that it? Was the instinctive ambivalence merely a product of her own memory-insecurity, then?.. “I’ve heard it isn’t a good idea to piss off an artist or a writer… They’ll immortalize you in their work and it’s never favourable. Stephen King, was it?…  _Do you do the same with your art?_ ” Cami asked, the corners of her lips still upturned into a smile. His art, she definitely remembered, and maybe she was poking into his psyche to make up for the details she couldn’t remember.

“Neat or on the rocks?” She added, before her smile turned into a grin. “Better not tell it to my dad - he insists the Irish invented whiskey and the Scotts stole our thunder.” The blonde cocked her head to the right, “-Then there’s my mom on the other hand who insisted that the only appropriate drink for a lady was wine, so naturally, I acquired a taste for beer just to spite her.” Her parents had strong opinions on the damnedest of things.

_Do you_   _do the same with your art?_

Well, there was that one piece in the  _Kunsthistorisches_ in Vienna, painted with the blood of it’s subject. Though he supposed the news would be breaking soon when the museum realized its medium during touch-ups. He was surprised it hadn’t happened already to be honest. He wondered whether it would detract or add to the value; humans were a grotesque species after all. “You wound me, Camille. I kill my enemies with kindness, of course. Nothing so malicious as unflattering portraits,” he quipped, eyes twinkling with mischief. 

“On the rocks, for the drama of it all.” He didn’t intend to be here when the ice had melted, so he hardly had to worry about the integrity of the alcohol content. He let Cami ramble on in that way she had, spilling so much personal information about herself with every word. It was a bit worrying to be honest. If it hadn’t been so endearing, he’d insist that they’d have to work on it. 

He’d put it off long enough. He needed information and trading quips with Camille, while amusing enough, was not going to get it for him. Still, he waited for the drink, so he could take a long pull from its lip, before he set it down and reached for Cami’s wrist. “I have a task for you, Cami,” he said, interrupting her without warning, his tone laden with intent. His thumb brushed back and forth over her radial artery as it passed beneath the soft skin of her inner wrist, feeling it dance beneath his touch as the memories came rushing back to her. 

“- All I’m saying is that you’re not the only one with an uptight mother.” She kept on rambling, aiming a nonchalant smile at him over one shoulder as she grabbed a glass and filled it with a few cubes of iced scotch before heading for the cabinet to grab the bottle in question. She couldn’t help a snicker when he insisted that he killed his enemies with kindness. “Maybe I should pick up some kind of art myself… Seems pretty damn cathartic when you put it that way.” Cami humored him, twisting the cap back on the bottle before sliding the glass across the counter towards Klaus. He took it, drank, and Cami was about to turn away when he grabbed her wrist in one swift motion. “I have a task for you, Cami.” - She didn’t have time to appreciate his use of the nickname.

 _Because that’s when it all came rushing back…_  

A series of flashbacks; blurred at first, as if someone had pressed zoom too quickly on a focusing lens.  _Killer,_  sociopath, biting off more than you can chew -  _Vampire_  (!?!) - not a metaphor; family of vampires; old, immortal, predatory vampires. Werewolves, witches in town too. _Danger._  

_Stay away, stay away, stay away._

But the mayday signal was quickly drowned out in her mind as Cami’s pupils dilated; the effects of the vampire’s compulsion washing over her. The smile was gone now, replaced by a sense of alarm that she couldn’t express. Body and mind both tidally locked to his will, despite the fact that her heart was hammering in her chest; imploring her to get the hell away from him. She didn’t speak.

Still tracing his thumb across her wrist, he marveled–not for the first time– at the power of compulsion. Even as his thumb stroked, her raced heart shuddered and slowed. Her eyes dilated, her facial muscles relaxed. Having never felt the tug of compulsion on his own puppet strings, he had always wondered where it lodged itself. Did her mind still reel away from him? Did the panic that had been seeped from her blood by the merest eye contact, still race across the synapses of her brain? How was it that he could control muscle, and sense, and memory, and yet still know, deep in his bones, how afraid she was?

“Your uncle Kieran is the priest of St. Anne’s church, over on Rue Urseline, not far from Lafayette Cemetery. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.” He carried on as if not morbidly fascinated by her physiology, and admittedly somewhat disturbed by the ramifications of his own effect on it. He was a busy man and the safety of him and his family, the sanctity of his mission to reclaim his home had to come before any neighborly concern for his stenographer and bartender. “There is a young girl who spends time in that church. A witch, actually. I need you to find out who she is, and who she is loyal to. Brown hair, slight frame, atrocious manners, you should be able to pick her out from a crowd.”  

His words were tossed out carelessly, without a care, though he felt the farthest thing from careless. He hadn’t felt a witch with that kind of power in centuries perhaps. If she was carrying on in his city, supposedly immune to Marcel’s rules, he wanted to know why. He’d be speaking to Marcel about it, of course. Abruptly, he let go of Cami’s wrist, and pushed off the barstool. “There’s a love.”

Cami remained silent as he spoke, quietly ordering her to investigate her uncle’s church in search of a witch. Her gaze was locked to his; pupils blown wide as she watched him calmly. The only feature that betrayed that external veneer was her pulse, drumming away beneath her skin. A deer, caught in headlights; hanging onto his every word. As soon as he released her wrist and verbally freed her from the compulsion, the dam snapped shut in her mind. Cami grappled with the fragments of her memory, determined to keep them this time - but within milliseconds, all the flashback - all her knowledge of the supernatural slipped through her fingers and whirred back into that inaccessible void of her sub-conscience.  _Again._  And Cami snapped out of it against her will, heartbeat still hammering even as her posture relaxed against its will.

“Leaving so soon?” Cami asked, chipper tone a little off. The question was instinctive, and would’ve been completely genuine had it not been for the fact that she was  _distracted_. She didn’t know how it’d happened - one moment she’d been talking the history of alcohol and teasing him about his mother - the next it was like this thought had popped into her mind out of nowhere and fully claimed every ounce of her attention. 

An obsessive question; a dog chasing its tail as she wondered about the attic in Kieran’s church… Whether it was in use, whether anyone had stolen into the little room… Wondering why the word  _‘witch_ ’ was running around her skull like a skittish spider,  whether Klaus had said anything important while her mind had been in lala land…

_Damn it, Cami… Damn it._

He grinned at her, despite the oily taste slipping down the back of his throat. The urge to turn his back on her, to run before the daze slipped back into her face, was nearly overwhelming, but he resisted, out of nothing more than a hollow attempt to maintain his standing, his honor before her. As if his not turning his back on her was enough to make up for everything he had taken from her. Everything he _would_  take from her, seeing as he had no intention of stopping any time soon. “I’m a busy man, Camille. Tell your uncle I said hello,” he murmured. With an abrupt knock on the bar top, he waited until she turned her back, reaching for a glass or a bottle of Something or Other Summer Ale, and was out the door before she turned back around.


	3. Chapter 3

Klaus was leaning back against a somewhat less-than-high-end sofa, the kind with the cushion worn from years of other people. He preferred this spot to the higher-end La-Z-boy recliner. The recliner felt a little too clinical for him, reminiscent of humans he preferred to eat rather than suffer their continued existence and besides, the sofa almost felt like it was welcoming him down. 

“–but who is she? Who is she working for? How is it that I haven’t heard the slightest thread of a rumor about her?”  He tapped his fingers against the arm of the sofa, upholstery worn thin with age and other tapping fingers. The little witch that had disgraced him with nary a thought, brought him to his knees. She had power, the likes of which he hadn’t seen since—

He wanted a name. He wanted her allies, her history, her power. 

“Why don’t we work through an issue I’m facing, Dr. O’Connell? Do I kill her or co-opt her?” 

The makeshift therapist’s office Cami was renting was heating up like a sauna. She’d fiddled with the broken AC three times already; twice before Klaus had arrived, and once more now that he was beginning to talk in circles. When he called out to her by title (hard to ignore - unmerited though it still was), Cami sat back on her haunches and fixed him with a look over her shoulder.

“So let me get this straight; Sabrina the teenage witch decides to show off her best party trick and the most age-appropriate response you can think of is to murder her or use her as part of a half-baked Machiavellian plan?”

Truth be told, she was keenly aware of her own (failed) part in this plan; find out everything there was to know about the witch living in the church attic. But outside of these narrow windows of Klaus’ compulsion, Cami could never quite remember what the hell she was doing in Kieran’s church attic in the first place—Nevermind what on earth she was doing hunting mythical creatures in the process.

She turned back to the AC unit and gave it a thump for good measure. “You—we realize that’s like the same thing as, say, a toddler who kicks over my hypothetical crutch and I proceed to beat him to death with said crutch, right?”

Klaus huffed as Camille fiddled with the blasted air conditioner. He honestly couldn’t remember how he ever lived without them. The heat always made him somewhat short-tempered, though that never bothered him enough to prevent him from seeking out warmer climates. He never paid the price for his short temper, regardless. He had minions for that. 

Of course, Camille would take what he said and regurgitate it into the most absurd of hyperbole. Really what other options did she think he had? One way or another, this little witch would no longer be a problem in his quarter. He thought it was rather kind of him to offer her a non-lethal option at all. “I’m insulted, Camille. My Machiavellian plots are never  _ half-baked _ . But yes, as usual you have summed up exactly what I just said in a one-line zinger that does wonders for my ego. Thank you for that. And I disagree entirely. I would never beat a toddler. This girl was at least fifteen. Back in my day she would’ve already been borne a few toddlers of her own, no doubt. Lucky for her, she lives in a softer world than I grew up in. Albeit not for long.” 

“Yeah and back in your day I’d be called a quack and chased around with a pitchfork,” The blonde rebutted swiftly. She knew she was drawing from two different centuries, but the point still stood. “You can’t use the past to excuse the present, Klaus. It doesn’t work that way. And for the record, any plan that involves mostly murder and manipulation counts as half-baked to me. We’re gonna have to work on that one, but priorities, right??”

“Lucky for you, as well then. We should all be grateful that now is not then. Huzzah to progress and all that. Additionally,” he continued, gesturing toward with his iPhone, “you fail to consider that the majority of my schemes containing murder are in response to already attempted assassination, and manipulation is just the aftereffects of a life like mine where not having the proper pieces in place puts you in checkmate and ends in those assassination attempts, which means more murderous Klaus, so really, Camille, you’ll at least have to choose one.” 

Try as she might, Cami couldn’t get the AC to work. “Do you have any tricks up your sleeve to get this thing working? You know, with the whole vampire thing, maybe?” She asked helplessly, sparing another glance over her shoulder at him. Truth be told, she was feeling disturbingly calm about his identity, and for the life of her she couldn’t remember why. Still, the thought itself was enough to make her turn towards him fully, back now facing the AC unit instead. If not the thought, his argument would’ve had the same effect anyway.

“Sorry love, technology that advanced is a bit after my time,” he muttered, deleting an appointment from his iCalendar. It wasn’t that Camille didn’t have his full attention, but rather that he didn’t have hers and would be damn if he didn’t give as good as he got. He had things to discuss, and it wasn’t as if he went to just anyone with them. She should feel honored. 

“Turkish bath it is,” She concluded with a defeated sigh. With a little kick for good measure, Cami turned to face him- only that was exactly when the air conditioning kicked in. “So this wit- Oh hey!!” She cheered, swiveling around to glance at the now-functioning AC unit. “It worked!! But that,” she continued, jabbing one finger in its direction a moment after her celebration, “is the only situation in which I condone violence.” Her gaze flickered to his phone when he raised it in indication as he spoke of assassinations and necessary evils. 

“Have you tried asking her why she resents your kind so much to begin with??” Cami continued. Though given what she was learning of his species, it didn’t leave much up to the imagination. “Or maybe communicating on her level? You said she looks fifteen, according to Erik Erikson’s stages of development that puts her right in the identity vs. role-confusion stage in adolescence. You know; friendships, role-models, fitting in… I’d hazard a guess and say she’s not interested in joining your political schemes as an alternative to meeting her Maker.” She told him warily, still bothered by the fact that she felt so unflappably calm about the conversation as a whole.

At that, Klaus threw his hands up in the air. Really, he wondered if it was the little girl sitting in his place, would Camille would be defending Klaus as doggedly to her as she was the girl who had assaulted him and threatened to boil his blood? Somehow he doubted it, and why that bothered him, he didn’t know. “Communicating on her level? You mean forcing her to bow to me with nary a glance and then threatening to raise the temperature of several bodily fluids above eviscerate? Perhaps then I could get through to her. That does seem to be her preferred method of communication, seeing as I couldn’t very well get an word in edgewise at that point.”

“No… Nonono, wait.”  The blonde insisted resolutely, marching over to the sofa on which he was seated and finally dropping into the chair that sat across from him. “Don’t you see that it’s a dog chasing its tail?? People wouldn’t wanna assassinate you if you hadn’t backed them in a corner in the first place, right? No offense. Though, side-note, I’m told the risks of that decrease the more you distance yourself from politics. Why not just leave it to someone else? You’ve been there, done that...aren’t you tired of it?” She questioned, before remembering that there was a slightly more pressing issue to discuss today. 

“This witch kid… I’m not condoning her approach either. Kind of creepy, actually. I’d probably recommend anger management classes or something, but this is about you, not her. And you did vaguely threaten her about the consequences that awaited her for using magic before she decided to go all  _ Karate-Kid next Generation _ on your vitals.” She paused to let her words sink in before continuing a split-second later. “Did you consider the fact that maybe you frightened her? …What if the next time you saw her you assured her that you aren’t a threat to her existence?”

His eyes narrowed as he lounged on the sofa watching her. For an instant, he wondered whether it was wise coming to a human who was a mere fetus in comparison in age to him. How could anyone, growing up in the age of cars and telephones and modern medicine and laws protecting children… how could he ever expect someone like that to comprehend a thousand years of persecution, not spread out across generations, inherited like a disease one could only bear throughout the years, but located in one body, targeted on one mind,  _ his _ mind, and he was expected to just… what? Put it behind him? Be the better man? It was all he knew. More than that, this is who he was.

“I’m afraid we disagree, Cami.” These words held no teasing, no wry lilt. “Do you think I haven’t tried that before? Perhaps I’ve neglected to mention how old I am?” Doubtful. “Do you think I’ve never tried turning the other cheek?” It was an honest question, almost beseeching and he held out a hand, eyes curiously flat. “Would you like to see the many times I tried to be the bigger man?”

He didn’t give her a chance to answer, but flashed behind her faster than her eyes could follow, hands pressed to either side of her neck. Eyes closed, jaw clenched, he let wave after wave of memory wash over him–

_ -Mikael’s sword, coming too fast, too high, he’s not tall enough to protect himself, doesn’t have the strength in his arms to defend himself from the inevitable blow but he tries and feels his shoulder pop out of joint. His father laughs when he starts to cry. “Father–” _

_ “–hates me, Mother. What did I do to him?” He’s taller now, nursing a broken arm, and burns, another of Father’s attacks. “Niklaus… it’s not that simple.” He can see in her eyes that he’s right. Father hates him, and even Mother can’t bring herself to disagree– _

_ “Elijah, brother, don’t let him do this to me!” He gasped as his father drove another spike through his palm. “I beg of you, please,” he was wracked with sobs, with pain, he couldn’t think, couldn’t look anywhere but at his brother, as he drove the final stake into his chest– _

***

“Hey! What do you thi-” And just like that, she was transported back a thousand years, an eyewitness to his memories, as they flashed in rapid succession before her. The sensation in and of itself was overwhelming at first, making it hard to focus on much beyond her own physical response to it. But as a young boy came into view, and as his father towered over him, Cami’s attention was ensnared. “No… No, don’t!” She shook her head, immersed in the scene as the man - the monster struck his defenseless son to the ground. And then as those familiar eyes looked up in watery protest she felt something hard lodge itself inside her own throat. And then it was gone, quickly replaced by another scene in which a woman with long, straw-coloured hair consoled the same little boy with an expression that screamed of guilt and a tone that spoke of excuses. Cami’s fingers dug into the palms of her hand as this scene too disappeared from her sight. But the final scene was by far the worst. Tears stung in her eyes as the same man from before impaled the boy - now a little older, with a sadistic fervour that made her stomach roil. “ _ Please... _ ” She murmured unconsciously, wishing she could squeeze her eyes shut as the young man cried out, begged Elijah to interfere, to no avail. Another stab, followed by another—

Klaus wrenched his hands away from Cami, curled them into fists from where he stood at Cami’s back. He did nothing to hide the pain on his face, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t grateful to be out of her range of sight, at least for the moment. “So you see, Cami, I don’t think I can assure our young witch I’m not  threat to her existence. I doubt I know any other way of being.”

She gasped for breath when he released her just as abruptly as he’d taken hold of her, blinking rapidly as the dizzying visions evaporated. How young had he been when it started? How many decades— _ centuries _ —had those memories haunted him? She brushed haphazardly at her eyes, fingertips coming away wet before Cami reached out blindly for his arm. But Klaus had already turned away, and she took the second to inhale-exhale once more in a bid to reclaim composure before walking forward and turning so as to see him face-to-face. His gaze was direct when it found hers, but it seemed as though that too, took a contrived sort of effort. “I’m sorry… Klaus. I am so sorry that happened to you.”

Her pleas were touching, in a painful, too-little, too-late kind of way. It still stung that someone could see what he went through and want to defend him.  _ Him. _ That, perhaps, if only things had been slightly different, if only someone had been just a touch more compassionate, his life could’ve been different. Had he had someone like Camille back then, maybe he could have been saved. 

But he hadn’t, and her words of horror and pity, though he longed to take the hand she reached out, did him no good. He struggled to find an adequate response, his usual glibness having abandoned him, and sincerity seeming too raw in the wake of those memories. “You understand now,” perhaps not fully, but as well as he could expect of a human, “my paranoia, my obsession with machinations of power, my constant gnawing fear of being stabbed in that back, and my ever-present and all-consuming belief that violence is the only language that speaks.” To be truthful, he wasn’t unaware of what a psychologist saw when she looked at him, what diagnoses would be tossed at him. What he wanted, more than anything, and what he could not let himself believe, was that there could be something more than just those diagnoses. He had lived eons before psychology had dreamed of existing and would live long after its memory had faded, but for some reason, what that particular field of science said about Klaus as a man, as a person, seemed to stick.

“I understand.” She told him, the affirmation resolute, despite the firm tone in which it was delivered. “And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that that happened to you. No child - no person, should ever have to go through anything like that.” The blonde continued quickly, her expression conveying one of desperate sincerity lest he interpret her words as just the run-of-the-mill response a therapist might give. “And I get it, okay?? I wasn’t there - well… Not technically, I’m not the one who had to experience it, so I can’t claim I know what it feels like. But I get it. I get why you’d want to secure power, a sense of security - loyalty, even. I don’t think you’re going about it the right way, and I do think we might need to break that cycle - but that comes later.” 

He stepped back, putting space between them, already reaching like an unbridgeable gulf. He regretting showing her those memories already, unearthing them like a wound laying deep beneath the surface of his skin. Why her? What had possessed him to share that pain with someone so unblemished by darkness? What had he been thinking? “I should go.”

She saw she was losing him even before he said the words; something changed in his gaze, like a window slowly but surely clicking shut. And just like that, he stepped away, distancing himself with the intention of cutting their session short. 

“What?! No!! No, we aren’t done here - we’ve barely begun!! Sabri- The witch girl? The- your memories? Your father, your-… Elijah!” She trailed after him for a step or two before changing her mind and rushing back to the chair instead, tossing her jacket onto the the armrest and reaching for the notepad she’d abandoned before fiddling with the AC. This was important, this was invaluable and she couldn’t afford to forget any of it. 

_ Child abuse, possible PTSD, traumat-  _

But the pen died out as she was scribbling away, likely from the pressure she was exerting on it. Intent on keeping him talking, Cami called out again. “Wanna talk about your mom?? What was her deal? You mentioned her before but it was mostly in passing.” Quickly she pulled out another pen, ripped the page out of her notebook, scrunched it up and shoved it into her purse before continuing on a fresh page. 

_ KM will make you forget. Shared memories, mom, dad stabbed him, brother bystander (!!) can’t break- _

She scribbled quickly, the letters merging sloppily together as she kept her gaze pinned to the man across the room from her.  

_ WITCH KID WHO BOILS BLOOD. KM IS A VAMPI- _

At the mention of his mother, Klaus rolled his eyes and stalked over to Camille, grabbing her by the shoulders. “Enough, Cami!” He said, voice laden with exasperation, though his anger was hardly directed at her. He should never have let himself get so caught up. “We are done here, Camille. Session is over. There will be no more discussion of my childhood, understand?” Despite the severity of his tone, he couldn’t bring himself to end it just yet, to take away the understanding, the compassion he had found within her, no matter how selfish it made him. If only he could trust her without this tiresome compulsion, if only he could trust that the compassion she had shown for the child he once was could be extended to the monster that child had become…

But he couldn’t trust. His own will was only thing he had left that held any meaning, and he would foist it upon her once more.

But Klaus remained resolute in cutting their session short, which left Cami grappling for a better question to draw him back into the conversation. “Fine, mom’s out. Do you wanna tell me how old you were? In the first one?.. Not- not that it makes a difference, but I-” Her words cut off as he reached her and grabbed his therapist by the shoulders. Inhaling sharply, Cami rapidly shoved her notepad into her purse all the while, (holding) and searching his gaze, trying to reestablish a communication link. “What- What about Elijah? How ‘bout we talk about Elijah? In the present.” She stressed, in the hopes that she’d have better chances of getting that private window to open up again. Despite her own intention to hold her ground, the blonde found herself walking backwards, in a bid to win herself both space and valuable seconds in which to change his mind. It was only when her back hit the window frame of the small room that she realized she was running out of both of factors.

And suddenly with a nauseating déja-vu, she knew what came next.

The realization dawned on her as she stopped dead in her tracks, nowhere left to go. He’d make her forget. There was a pattern and she was beginning to see it now; his expression grim. She’d forget and all this valuable information, this progress - would be lost. In a matter of seconds he’d given her a small key to his psyche and just as quickly he was intent on stealing it back. “This is my job, Klaus. This is what you’re here for.” Cami reminded him, in a voice calmer than she felt. Her hands rose to his wrists as she tried to pry his grip from her shoulders. How much time did she have left? A minute? Two?… Having managed to lower his hands she wrapped both of hers around one of his wrists, her own hold imploring. “Let me help you. Please…?” It came out more as plea rather than the professional assertion she was hoping for. But her heart was beating erratically in her chest, and for once, she was more upset about the prospect of losing the flashbacks he’d shared with her, than of having her memory wiped altogether. “ _ Please. _ ” She repeated, more firmly now. 

He could see it in her eyes, the moment she realized what was coming, and felt the heartbreak,  _ the horror _ , he saw there claw its way into his memory. She thought this was easy for him, that he took this from her without a thought for what it cost her, but that wasn’t true. He robbed them both of something precious, and he was growing more aware of it every passing time. It only made it all the more dire that he continue doing so. He had brought her into this world before she was ready for it. He needed her alive, and to stay alive, she needed to stay oblivious

Were he truly as bound up in thoughts for her safety as he liked to believe, he would’ve stopped coming back, and drawing her back in time and time again. He would’ve simply let her walk away. That’s not what he needed her alive for, he was much too selfish for that, and Camille’s particular joie de vivre drew him in like flame to a moth, like darkness that swallowed up anything light. 

He barely knew this woman. All it had taken was a few off the cuff remarks, a too-close-for-comfort insight here and there, and she had gotten under his skin. He would ruin her, he could see it in her eyes now, just like everything else he touched. “You can’t help me, Cami,” he murmured, running his thumb along her chin. Before he lost his nerve. 

_ “You’ll forget what you saw tonight, you’ll forget our discussion. You’ll continue to look for the girl, and tell me everything you learn about St. Anne’s church.” _ He paused, wishing those eyes didn’t have the power to drown him.  _ “You’ll dream of a boy in the wood tonight, playing with a wooden sword. He’s happy. He’s dreaming of a maiden with sunshine for hair and hope in her heart. She will help him and heal him, and he will be happy.” _ With the faintest press of his lips to her forehead, he was gone, and only the curtains blowing in the breeze he left in his wake were proof he had been there.


End file.
